


Red Velvet Vanilla Hood

by waferkya



Series: The Cake is a Lie [1]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bad Flirting, Bad Puns, Flirting, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everyone has maxed out their geek credit card. At some point it also rains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Velvet Vanilla Hood

He doesn’t know about it until that night, when he gets back from his nap to close up the shop and start working on the dough for tomorrow and he stops on the sidewalk like he always does to take in the board and. _What._

It’s a Wednesday, and there’s been an unusual income of people all day, customers pouring in and grinning at him as they placed their orders for coffee and sweets, and he thought, he honestly thought that this was about his latest batch of cupcakes. They are awesome, and delicious of course, but they’re _awesome_ ; they have a theme, see. And the theme is Breaking Bad. (His favourites are the ones with the crystals—banana cake topped with buttercream and big gorgeous turquoise rock candy that looks exactly like cooked meth—well, the one they do on the show anyway.)

But apparently, he was wrong to assume this was all due to his skills and terrible puns. So, so very wrong.

Sure, the cupcakes went out as if they were handing them to people for free, and he’s had to refill that particular tray no less than fifteen times with Marc and Victor taking care of customers as he slaved away in the back; but it wasn’t the board advertising their ‘pure art, basic chemistry _Baking Bad_ cupcakes — restrain this deliciousness!’ that drew in so many new faces, because the board is not advertising their ‘pure art, basic chemistry _Baking Bad_ cupcakes — restrain this deliciousness!’ anymore.

Instead it reads, in big white loopy letters, PLEASE COME IN AND MEET THE MOST GORGEOUS BARISTA/BAKER/GRUMPYPANTS IN THE HISTORY OF EVER, and Juan Carlos stares and stares and stares.

 

He twirls in with a big bright smile and a Batman sweater that looks too big for him by at least two sizes—the sleeves hanging way past his knuckles—and yet still manages to cling on his shoulders and chest, and hug his narrow hips just fine.

He slips his big headphones off as he gets to the register, and then places both his hands on the counter, tapping away good-naturedly.

“Hi,” he says, somehow mastering the fine art of talking through his smile. Juan Carlos grunts, puts down the mug he was drying and walks to him.

“The usual?” he asks, just this side of politely; Ricky gives him an enthusiastic nod, and opens his mouth to spill some random, flirty variation of _wow you remember my order, I’m flattered_ , but Juan Carlos levels him down with a glare. “That wasn’t funny.”

Ricky tilts his head to the side, looking much like a confused puppy.

“I just said hi.”

Juan Carlos punches the order in—it’s Thursday morning, and morning means Ricky wants his favourite which means a vanilla latte with a cinnamon roll—and minutely rolls his eyes. “I meant the thing with the board. Yesterday.”

Ricky goes wide-eyed, terribly wide-eyed—why are his eyes so fricking chocolate-y?—but he doesn’t even _try_ to look sheepish. Or sorry. Or innocent. Or anything except ridiculously fuckable, with his big sweater and messy hair and pouty lips and the big hands, long fingers. (Juan Carlos definitely didn’t think that.)

“Oh,” Ricky says, grinning. “Of course it wasn’t funny. Compliments are not supposed to be funny, you know.”

Juan Carlos grunts again and turns around to start working at the coffee maker; Ricky doesn’t give up.

“Besides, it’s not like what was there before was much better,” he points on. “Baking Bad? Seriously?”

“It’s a _reference_ ,” Juan Carlos bites back, rather gruffly.

“I know that,” Ricky says, like he’s dealing with an exceptionally stubborn five-year-old kid, and isn’t that precious? The kid patronizing the adult. “It’s just a very, very lame pun, Juanki, lemme tell you that.”

The coffee is ready and Juan Carlos goes heavy on the vanilla before Ricky can ask him to; he scribbles on the cup, then he leans to his right for the bakery goods display, and his hand hovers over a rather sad-looking cinnamon roll that’s been sitting there since earlier this morning, but even though he’s still cringing for the gratuitous pet name, Juan Carlos ends up grabbing one of the bigger, fresh ones, because he’s good like that.

“That’s 5.75,” he says, and Ricky grins as he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. The sweater might be oversized but the jeans he’s wearing are way, way too fitting.

“Is that your number?” he asks, handing out seven euros. Juan Carlos raises his eyebrows at him.

“Three digits only?” he says, collecting the change and placing it in the tiny plate by the register rather than putting it into Ricky’s hand—this is all very silly anyway, because Ricky always leaves all the change he gets as a tip on the table for Juan Carlos to collect later. Still, it’s a dance they do and he can’t see any good reason to stop.

Ricky shrugs, smirking. “Maybe the first three digits?”

“Yeah, right,” Juan Carlos mumbles. Ricky pockets the coins and then shifts to grab his papercup and his plate.

“I know that’s not your number though, because I already have it,” he says, casually. “Marc gave it to me, like, ages ago.”

Juan Carlos barely refrains from trying to murder his employee—currently at home and sleeping the sleep of the justs that he totally does not deserve—with his mind. Ricky flashes him a toothy grin before walking to his usual table—there’s only another three already taken, it’s a quiet morning, but he’s a creature of habit.

Juan Carlos doesn’t look at his ass as he walks away, but when Ricky actually checks the cup, sees the name scribbled there on the side— _Robin_ —and laughs, he allows himself a tiny, satisfied smile.

 

Along with Ricky’s change, on the table he finds a piece of paper. When he unfolds it, he recognizes the same loopy script from the board.

_i’ll assume u meant dick  
so, u want some?  <3_

 

(The first time Ricky stumbles into the _D’on venim_ it’s been raining for hours, his umbrella was killed by the wind and he’s soaked from head to toe. The wind chime above him rings happily as he pushes the door open, but none of the customers look up—the café is crowded with packs of twentysomethings, most of whom look just as roughed up by the weather as Ricky, but they’re clearly way, way happier than him, clinging on big mugs or papercups or diving into frankly amazing-looking pastries.

Ricky sighs, convinced he’s found heaven on earth, and walks to the surprisingly deserted counter, trying not to cringe every time his wet trainers squeak over the wooden floor.

“Crap,” he says. “Who let the Team Aqua run free?”

There’s only one big, bearded guy standing behind the counter a couple of feet to the right, drying up a glass, and he actually hears Ricky and laughs, his head tipped back and his stomach shaking and everything. Ricky grins.

“Free whatever-he-wants for the kid with the Pokémon references,” the big guy—Marc, his name-tag supplies—announces, snapping the rag over his shoulder.

Ricky blinks. “Seriously?”

Marc shoots him a grin. “Sure. You look like the weather’s been super-nasty to ya, I gotta balance that out.”

“Dude, I love you,” Ricky says, his shoulders dropping down as he eyes the big boards with the products hanging on the wall behind the counter. “But seriously, you don’t have to.”

“It’s fine,” Marc shrugs. “Besides, the register’s gonna explode if I try and stuff it some more. Really man, it’s okay.”

“Did I mention that I love you?”

Marc laughs. “Yeah, you said that. So, what’s it gonna be?”

“Well, uh, how’s the vanilla latte?”

“Shitty,” Marc says, with a very straight face. Ricky laughs, but Marc doesn’t. “No, really. I’m sorry but I’m shit at that, the milk hates me. If you really want it, you’re gonna have to wait for Juanqui to arrive, and that means—no, I actually have no idea when he’s gonna get here.”

Ricky smiles. “No, that’s fine. I’ll just—take whatever you feel like making, since you’re offering. Please, surprise me.”

Marc shoots him a grin. “I like the way you think, boy.”

Ricky tips off an imaginary hat, and then Marc starts operating the coffee machine; after a moment he looks up and says, “This is gonna take a while, why don’t you head over to the bathroom and try to dry up a little?”

Ricky could kiss him, and the intention probably shows up on his face because Marc actually blushes under all that beard, and waves him off, pointing in the direction of the bathroom. Ricky spends the next fifteen minutes bent in half to fit his head under the hand-dryer, and when he comes out, there’s another guy with Marc behind the counter—he looks a bit older, but he’s tinier, and his colour appears to be black whereas Marc is more of a burned-honey hue.

Ricky wears his smile as if it was pitch black in the shop and he needed a flashlight. “Hey there.”

“Ah, hey, this is the boss I was telling you about, Juanqui,” Marc says, pointing at the new guy, who tears his eyes off Ricky to glare up at him. Marc sighs. “Yeah, right, Juan Carlos. Anyways, he can make you the vanilla latte if—”

“No, no, it’s fine, now I wanna know what you made for me,” Ricky says, laughing a little, and Marc beams.

“Great. Then I’ll need your name,” he says, grabbing a tall papercup and a sharpie.

“That would be Ricky.”

Marc gives a solemn nod. “Richard the Lionheart,” he says as he writes—Juan Carlos rolls his eyes, but he looks amused. “There you go. Do you want a cupcake or something to eat with it?”

“Actually, yeah. Do you have any cinnamon rolls?”

“But of course we do,” Marc says, and swings to the bakery display, grabs a cinnamon roll and then serves it to Ricky on a plate with a flourish. “ _Monsieur_.”

“Fuck,” Ricky says, staring wide-eyed at the roll. “That smells amazing.”

And he can’t wait to take a bite of it, so he doesn’t, and he can’t keep in one frankly obscene moan of pleasure the moment the pastry touches his tongue. Marc is laughing again, and Juan Carlos ducked out and into the shop’s back to hide the fact that he’s blushing quite a lot, for whatever reason.)

 

“Hullo,” Ricky says when it’s his turn at the queue, his thumbs tapping at the edge of the counter. Marc looks up from the register and smiles.

“Hey, kiddo. What day and time is it?”

Ricky laughs. “Thursday afternoon?”

“Right, so—large americano with cream, two sugars, and an extra shot of espresso, and the weird spicy muffin.”

“You, my friend, are the best,” Ricky says, bowing his head; Marc shrugs and punches the order in, scribbling it down for Victor and then shoving the piece of paper on the queue counter.

“I just try very hard,” he says, then goes to grab a muffin and put it on a plate. “I swear to the gods, you’re the only one who ever buys these things.”

Ricky laughs and fishes a slightly crumpled ten euros bill out of his pocket. “I know. I told that to Juanki too, so now he knows he’s making things just for me.”

“You are a fucking evil mastermind,” Marc tells him with a big, approving smile, handing back Ricky’s change and his receipt. Ricky laughs and shifts to the end of the counter, where there’s only a girl still waiting for her coffee. Ricky smiles at her, she smiles back, he smiles a little harder and she giggles.

“Amaya,” Victor calls, pushing out a brown papercup that can only mean chai tea latte.

“Thank you,” Amaya says with a small nod, and then she’s slipping away with one last rather shy glance up at Ricky. He looks after her as she leaves, but then he shoves his elbows on top of the counter and tries, like he always does, to reach the whipped cream pipe. He only got to it once, and then Juan Carlos moved it halfway across the ocean.

“Calm down, Ricky, I doubt you grew six feet since yesterday,” Victor says, without even turning around to look at him.

“One day,” Ricky mumbles, his muffin half-stuffed in his mouth as he tries to climb the wooden surface. “One day.”

Victor laughs, shakes his head and fixes his coffee, quick and efficient as ever. “There you go,” he says after a moment.

Ricky goes back to standing on his own two feet and tugs the muffin from his mouth. “What, you’re not calling my name?”

“I’m not reading that,” Victor says, with an amused grin; Ricky arches an eyebrow and rotates the cup on the counter.

_dick jokes aren’t funny either, jason_

 

On Saturday morning, Ricky shows up with a t-shirt that says, _You Only Live Twice_. The big _O_ is a stylized Red Hood head, and that’s the first time he gets Juan Carlos to actually laugh.  


**Author's Note:**

> One can never have too many AU's amirite. I entirely totally blame Def for this (how is that news?), but especially the fuckfest that will follow because. it. will. follow. #soon
> 
> References explained:  
> \- "pure art", "basic chemistry", "restrain this" are all things that characters from Breaking Bad say in the show;  
> \- "D'on Venim" means _where we come from_ in Catalan and isn't that a smart name for a shop? Just think of all the people going like, "Let's go to _Where we come from_ " seriously that is good;  
> \- Dick is Dick Grayson, the first Robin;  
> \- Jason is Jason Todd, the second Robin, who died and came back from death and then at some point took the identity of Red Hood.
> 
> [This](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m78wp2KrKf1rb8l6do1_1280.jpg) is what you get when you google 'Breaking Bad cupcakes' (the pun is entirely my fault), and [this is the shirt Ricky is wearing in the end.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mel01vlAeg1rjhmgxo1_500.jpg)


End file.
